I am wet, chilled to the bone and completely lost. I have no food to eat or clean water to drink, but I do have dry parchment and ink - the irony of fate. Pfff, at least I can record my final demise in this stinking bog. Just as well. I have to do something to keep awake. I have to rest - my feet won't carry me further without rest- but I mustn't sleep.
The fog is back and I'm thankful for it - it will make the pursuit so much more difficult, for I have no doubt there is a pursuit. I heard voices in the mist and ran away from them but I have no idea where it is I am running to. That the road to Needlehole will be closed to me, I have no doubt. Waymeet? I've lost my bearing.
Last night, after Mara woke me up from my dragon dream, I was sitting and penning some notes when I thought I saw something moving among the waters of Rushock Bog. I quietly slid off my wain and crept over to wake up my dwarven lasses - I did pay for their protection after all. Mara looked like she was going to have a fit at first, but when I told her why I was disturbing her slumber for the second time, she picked up her axe and shook the other two dwarves awake. She told me to go and hide in my wain and at first I did as I was bid. I climbed the waggon, gathered scattered parchments and writing implements, and settled down to watch what was going to happen.
The temperature dropped and thick mist rose from over the waters blighting the clear night. The fog moved in our direction, and so did a shadow in it. When it got closer, the shadow grew and spilt into several smaller shapes, and something about the way they moved purposefully towards our camp made me uneasy. A solitary cloud covered the moon and I used this moment of darkness to quietly slide off the wain and vanish in the nearby bushes.
It didn't take very long for the shapes to emerge from the greyish black vapour, but the cloud was persistently blocking the light and I wished it away so that I could see better.
My dwarves greeted the other dwarves with the niceties customary for those who have unplanned meetings with strangers in the night. Axes were raised, and shouts were exchanged, fast and gruff, spoken in guttural Khuzdul I didn't understand. And then something I never expected to happen… happened.
Mara was saying something angrily, her axe brandished, when one of the dwarves, who were standing further away, stepped forward. She gasped, lowered her weapon and went to him. He said something quietly, the axe dropped out of Mara's hand, and she touched her forehead to his, which is an incredible display of affection among the Khazâd.
I didn't hear what was being said, but I noticed that everyone had relaxed palpably, and I assumed these were friends. I was just about to come out of my hiding, when Mara said something to the dwarf she had kissed, and he answered with laughter that curdled the very blood in my veins. Karloff!
Fear tightened its hateful fingers on my chest so hard, that I couldn't breathe. My heart pounded loud, and I was sure all the dwarves were going to hear it and turn in my direction. The rush of blood in my ears sounded like a thunder of a waterfall. I choked back a sob of panic as images of the past flashed before the eyes of my mind: cages, Kheledûl… Mans.
Nobody was running to kill me just yet and I brought myself under the control of reason: I had a chance. They were still talking. Nobody was moving or pointing in the direction of the wain, Mara would expect to find me on, which meant, she hadn't mentioned my presence yet. Quietly and slowly, forcing my numb body to move, I crept away from the gathering and melted into darkness.
I meant to circle the camp and run towards Waymeet, but shouting started far too soon and I had to just simply move away, with no regards of the direction of my flight.
I have been running ever since, but I don't think I can keep this up for much longer. My heart behaves strangely in my chest, as if it was a butterfly trying to get out. I grow weak when this happens.
Pull yourself together, Cily! It's only lack of sleep.
Somewhere there a golden dreamer is beating eggs for a soufflé or trying out new songs. Is he even real? I miss him so much…
There is a beginning of another paragraph here but it's illegible, as if someone didn't really see what they were writing. It starts with letters but quickly drifts off into a clumsy, uneven line. Has sleep finally defeated the writer?
